Page 26 of Before Broken Vows

And who the hell gets in a fight with someone and then gets aroused? I mean, shit, even after everything, she's just able to pull things out of me like no one I've ever known.

I round the corner, walking into the kitchen, and I stop. It's not Elena brewing coffee—it's her.

Stassi.

Her back's to me as she sits at the kitchen island wearing an oversized shirt, looking like she never left.

She's reading something on her phone I can't make out—not that I'm trying to. She shifts in her chair, and her shirt slips slightly off her shoulder.

That's when I see it.

A pale scar, just above her right shoulder blade. About five inches long. A clean slash that never should have happened.

It wasn't there before.

I stare at it, almost forgetting to breathe, and then a thought enters my mind. Forget that she disappeared. She got hurt. And I wasn't there.

She must feel my eyes on her, because she turns to look at me.

I walk over without a word. She stays still, just watching me. When I reach her, I let my fingertips brush the edge of the scar slowly.

She stiffens, but doesn't move.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

The skin under my hand is soft, warm, and I can feel her breathing shift. I should pull away. I should ask questions. I should demand to know who did this to her.

Instead, my mind flashes back.

To the first time I touched her skin. To the first time she gave me control and dared me to take it.

I blink and I'm back in Athens. Four years ago. The night everything changed.

She wasn't supposed to be anything.

Another American girl on vacation. Loud friends. Too much eyeliner. Laughing like they owned the night. But she wasn't like them. She moved differently. Watched everything. And when one of her friends knocked an entire vodka soda onto her dress, she didn't seem to care.

She just blinked, looked around for napkins, and started cleaning it while her friend went back to talking to a group of men.

I watched from the VIP balcony, ignoring whatever nonsense my brother Dimitri was saying beside me. My attention was locked on her.

She tried to wave off help. Told the server she was fine. But I stood and, for some reason, went down to her.

Because I needed to know her name.

"We have towels in the office," I said, appearing beside her.

She turned to me and leaned in. "Sorry, I didn't hear you."

It was the first time I saw the beautiful golden flecks in her eyes, framed by long dark hair.

"I said we have towels, you know," I said, pointing to her dress, "to help with that."

"Oh, do you, like, run this place? You're not dressed like the waiters."

"You could say that."

She studied me for a second while I took in her delicate lavender scent mixed with sunscreen. "Let me guess. Club owner, vaguely dangerous, never waits in line."